


Strand

by Meriandra



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Drama, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 11:18:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16448933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meriandra/pseuds/Meriandra
Summary: Link can't bring himself to be too upset about it. He should probably be more ashamed of himself than he is.





	Strand

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Jesus christ what am I doing~~   
>  ~~Oh, look, a fic where Link and Zelda are on speaking terms~~   
>  ~~Just take the goddamn thing I'm sick of looking at it~~
> 
>  
> 
> Edit 11/18/18: I have not forgotten about this, I promise!!  
> Edit: 12/9/18: Still not forgotten! :D

Link awakens to a gentle shove.

He grunts, but not out of complaint. He doesn't even open his eyes as he turns onto his side and shifts toward the wall. Zelda's weight dips the bed behind him.

She curls against his back. He can feel her forehead pressed below the nape of his neck, the fronts of her thighs against the backs of his, her knuckles digging in where her arms are tucked between them. The tops of her feet whisper against his calves, so smooth and soft they raise gooseflesh on his legs.

She says nothing, and soon her breathing is slow and even between his shoulder blades. _It isn't nightmares_ , she keeps insisting. _I just wake up and feel... alone._

The beds in Lurelin have no mattresses or pillows. They're open wooden frames woven with hundreds of thin ropes. The ropes make a flexible sleeping surface, almost like a very stiff hammock, which is covered with a thick mat. Strange, but not bad. They sort of cradle the body, and stay cool during the hot, humid nights—until someone crawls in behind you, and it reminds you that these narrow things aren't meant for two. Even with them both lying on their sides, they barely fit. The wooden edge of the frame cuts into his arm, and despite it being the coolest part of the night, it's starting to get uncomfortably warm.

If he had it his way, she'd never leave.

From over at the counter, Link hears the innkeeper give a familiar sigh. _You two kids_ , she'll say to him, as she's said every morning this past week. _It's sweet and all, but remember I've got my eye on you. No funny business._

Link remembers that night at the stable; Zelda's tears, the sudden emptiness inside her, the chasm it opened inside of him. He wants to tell the innkeeper that there's nothing to worry about—that he takes no pleasure in this, that he is a model of heroism and virtue and would no more take advantage of her vulnerability than he'd rob an unarmed traveler on the road.

He'd tell her this, if he believed it.

He'd tell her that it's okay, that once their stay here is done this won't go on, that of course Zelda won't just climb into bed with him when there's no one there to supervise. And that even if she does, he wouldn't dream of doing anything inappropriate.

He wants to believe this, too. Or so he tells himself.

He wants to be the sort of person that doesn't live for her every touch. That doesn't wait for the moments when she's driven to seek him out. That doesn't have to face the wall for fifteen minutes every morning after she leaves the bed, using every mental trick and shred of discipline he's ever possessed to finally get up without embarrassing himself. He wants to be the sort of person who's glad that the innkeeper is there to keep them honest.

Or so he tells himself.

Only one more night here after this, and then the real test will begin. A test of more than just his virtue. A test of whether all this has been a terrible mistake. _Just a little while_ , she said back at the stable, but the changes in her this past week alone make him think it's already been too long, and now they're committing to another month. He can't help but feel that all she's done is exchange one kind of pain for another.

But she's not the only one. He's running, too. The image of her face as she stood outside the stable, looking toward the ruins of the castle—that image holds more terror for him than the castle ever could. So who is he to judge?

He moves back against her the tiniest bit, not enough to disturb or wake her, but just to feel. Her breath, her knuckles, the fronts of her thighs. Her. _I'm the last one you should be looking to for help_ , he thinks to her. _I'm more broken than you could ever be._

He doesn't want to be the sort of person who won't try anyway.

 

* * *

 

“Oh!” Zelda moves her foot aside, sticks her hand into the surf, and straightens up with her prize clutched in her fist. “Look at that one!”

Armes grins and holds out the bucket for her to toss it in. “Nice,” he says. “You guys are getting the hang of this.”

In the early morning, while the tide is low, there are places where you can wade into the surf and dig in with bare feet, feeling for clams beneath the sand. Armes has taken them to a spot south of Korne Beach, over an hour's walk from the village, so they can give it a try. “Remember, not so far down,” he says to Link. “Once you're in to the ankle, it's time to move on.”

Right. Link yanks his leg out and splashes over to another spot. “How come I haven't seen anyone out here doing this?” he asks.

“Rozel's set rules. Only once a week per person, and a limit of fifty for each, so we don't deplete the supply. Otherwise we fishermen would be out here every rainy day.”

“Well, I don't think we'll hit that limit, today.” Zelda's digging in again, one leg twisting. Her light trousers are rolled up past her knees, and her pale linen top leaves her arms bare almost to the shoulder. With the sky so overcast, she wears no hat. “I'm looking forward to them, though. I can't remember the last time I had clams. We didn't get them often at the—” She pauses. “At the village.”

“I'm surprised you got any there at all. Kakariko's days from the ocean.”

“Freshwater ones,” Link says, thinking quickly. “From the river.” He pulls up a clam, but it's tiny. He tosses it back into the water.

“Gotcha.” Armes nods. “Well, you guys make it sound so nice there, I'd pay it a visit myself if it weren't so far. “

“Are you looking forward to your trip?” Zelda asks. She pulls something up, wrinkles her nose, and tosses it aside.

“I guess,” he says. “Mostly I'm looking forward to getting out of here until the end of the rainy season. Once I can work every day again, it's fine, but the boredom gets to me, and... well, you see how bad it got this time around. You guys are saving my neck.”

Link has flashes of memory. Piles of rupees. Men crowded around tables, wreathed in smoke. _Come on, Hero, just get in on one hand. Have a little fun, for once._

It isn't that Link doesn't understand the lure of gambling. It's just not his preferred flavor of risk.

“That scoundrel,” he hears Zelda mutter. She has very strong feelings about the subject. _Can you imagine? Extending people credit and allowing them to accumulate that much debt! Someone ought to lock him into one of his own treasure chests and throw away the key!_

Link can't bring himself to be too upset about it, given the arrangement. He should probably be more ashamed of himself than he is.

A short while later, Armes starts back for the village to finish getting ready for his trip. “You might want to find some cover, soon,” he calls to them, pointing upward. The clouds are a uniform steel gray. “It's gonna be one of those squalls.”

“And you might want to stay away from Cloyne's,” Zelda calls back.

He gives her a cheeky grin. “Why do you think I'm not letting you pay me 'till tomorrow morning?”

They continue searching for clams a while longer, working their way farther south, until Armes is no longer visible in the distance.

“Do you think we're doing the right thing?” Zelda asks, out of nowhere. “About the house?”

Link's heart lurches. She wants to talk about it. Okay, he can do this. He starts marshaling his thoughts, everything he's been preparing to say. _Remember, don't push her too hard_ , he tells himself. _Don't mess this up_.

“After all,” she continues, “almost all the money's going to go to that _swindler_.”

He pauses in the act of reaching down toward the water. _That's_ what she's worried about? Armes and Cloyne? He straightens up again, heart sinking. She's looking at him, and he's glad he's had so much practice at keeping his face unreadable.

She's waiting for an answer. Quickly, he realigns his thoughts. “I'm not sure,” he says, which couldn't be more true. “Is it better for Armes to lose his home?”

Zelda gives the water a kick. “I suppose not, but you heard him. Next rainy season he's likely to do it all over again. Part of me is afraid we're just encouraging this sort of behavior.” She plants her feet and crosses her arms. “I should speak to Rozel, is what I should do. If he can make rules about clams, he can make rules about gambling on collateral. If people want to gamble, then fine, but they shouldn't be able to lose their homes or livelihoods so easily.” She stops, blinking at him. “What?”

He realizes he's smiling at her. “Nothing.”

“I know that look. What is it?”

“I just—” _Love you more with each passing day._ “I think it's nice that you care. That you want to right what you see as an injustice.”

“It _is_ an injustice.”

“It is,” he agrees. “And I do want to help. But Armes is responsible for himself, too. He could get himself a rainy day hobby besides gambling.”

“I know that. But don't you see? There's a bigger picture, here. This sort of practice is predatory, and a just society shouldn't stand for it. Tomorrow we'll be officially renting the house, and as temporary residents, we'll have right of petition. We ought to use it.”

Link doesn't ask whether she's assuming this, or whether she's actually done some research into what passes for local bylaws. He also doesn't tell her that this is exactly why she should be out in the world among her people—the people she clearly needs, and that clearly need her. “We're only renting for a month.”

“Even so.” She gives a firm nod. “That's what we should do. Rozel's sure to at least listen to us, with all the good you've done for this place. Can I count on you for support?”

“Always,” he says, as the first few drops of rain start to fall. He looks around. “I don't know what kind of cover we're going to find around here... maybe back behind those rocks, where there are more trees?” He remembers another tree, another rain, from long ago.

Zelda holds out her hand, palm up, and watches the drops splash into it. There's a little mischief in her smile. “What's the point of living so close to the water, only to fear a little rain?”

He couldn't agree more, though these “little rains” are usually more like torrential downpours. Decision made, he upends the bucket with the clams and twists it down into the wet sand to protect them, as too much fresh water would kill them in minutes.

Just in time.

The sky _opens up_. It's a phrase people use a lot, but that's exactly what happens. One second it's raining a little, and the next an ocean-sized bucket of water is being upended onto their heads. Zelda gives a high-pitched yelp and covers her head. “I suppose I asked for that,” she says, shouting to be heard over the roar. Then, before Link can register what's happening, she ducks in toward him, pecks a kiss on his lips, then turns and takes off at a run.

He's not sure how long he stands there, staring after her as she splashes off down the strand. Long enough for his open mouth to fill with water. He swallows as he returns to his senses, all of which involve copious amounts of rain.

With a grin, he starts off after her.

He runs full out until he catches her, and then he runs with her. They cut through the wall of water like two unruly children, bare feet in the surf, sluiced from above and below. They turn their faces up and let the rain sting their eyes, run into their mouths, slap on their bare arms. It plasters their light clothing to them and plasters Link's hair to his head. It turns Zelda's hair into a streaming sheet of antique gold.

It's the best kind of rain, here in this place of sand and sea—the kind that breaks the sticky heat and scours everything without mercy, and for the first time in days, he feels completely clean.

When Zelda holds her arms out and twirls around, he's seized with a sudden madness he can't resist—he loops an arm around her from behind and scoops her up, relishing her girlish shriek, spinning her in circles. He sets her down and flees, fast enough for a chase, not so fast that she can't catch him. When she does, she leaps up onto his back, undaunted by the sword in its scabbard, and locks her legs and arms around him. “You are at my mercy. Yield!” He yields by grabbing hold of her legs and sprinting as fast as he can, with her arms nearly choking him and her squeals piercing in his ear. They laugh until they're breathing more water than air.

It's the best kind of rain, but also the kind that never lasts, softening before long to an ordinary shower. Water streams from their clothes and hair. Zelda, now on her own feet again, reaches back and takes her mass of hair in two fists and demonstrates how much water she can wring out of it. It sounds like a lot. He can hear the water splashing at her feet.

He isn't looking at her hair, though. He's looking at her clothes. They're soaked completely through. He didn't notice before, too distracted by the rain and their running around. But now all he can see is how much her pale top is clinging to her. The linen has gone translucent and he can see the straps and neckline of her shift. If it weren't for that shift, he'd be able to see... everything. Instead of _almost_ everything. Which is what he can see now.

He hears a gasp, and then realizes Zelda is looking down at herself. She spins around, turning her back to him.

_Shit._

“Sorry,” he says, his wet face flushing so hot he thinks steam might start rising from it. The view of her back isn't any less appealing, either. He averts his eyes.

“No, I—” she says. “I just didn't realize... I should be more careful, shouldn't I? We might not have been alone.”

Link's heart leaps into his mouth. His gaze moves back toward her in the same moment that she turns around. Her hands are tucked under her chin, partially covering her chest. There's a blush on her cheeks, but she doesn't look angry.

“Sorry,” he says again, making sure to keep his eyes on her face. His own face is still steaming hot. He plucks at the front of his saturated shirt, also light linen. “This is all I have, but if you want—”

She steps forward and wraps her arms around his shoulders.

And he's winded again.

Earlier, when she was clinging to his back, the sword was between them. Only the belt is between them, now. She's right up against him, the wet clothes like wet skin, revealing the same things to his body as they did to his eyes. Maybe more. His knees go weak. “Um,” he tries.

Then she's kissing him, and he has no idea what he was about to say, and doesn't care. All he cares about is her mouth and the feeling of her in his arms. It shocks him every time. As though each time is the first time he's ever been kissed.

It's the first time he's ever been kissed like _this_ , out in the rain, in wet clothes. Like nothing he's thought to imagine. She's plastered to him like the wet fabric plastered to their skin, and he can feel _everything_ , the whole shape of her beneath her top; places that are hard and places that are soft and places that curve against his hands. He snags his fingers in the thin fabric at the small of her back, twisting it, water seeping from all sides as he draws it tight. The taste of rainwater trickles around the taste of her.

He drinks the water from her mouth and follows it down, drunk on it, sipping down her neck in open-mouthed kisses; her chest heaves against him, her head falling back, and then he's drunk on that, too. She _likes_ this. He pants against her neck, running his lips along her jaw, to the tender flesh below her ear. When he kisses her there, her fists squeeze the water from the back of his shirt. She _likes_ this. He's going to lick every last drop of rain right off her. He's going to seize that gorgeous round bottom of hers and crush her right up against his—

His eyes go wide. He throws himself backward, breaking Zelda's grip on his shirt, and turns his back to her.

“What?” Zelda says. There's a sharp edge to her voice. “What's wrong?”

“What's _wrong_?” He sweeps his wet hair back with both hands and glances down at the triangular bulge in his shorts. “Didn't you—I mean—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—I'm sorry.” _Prodding_ at her like some kind of animal. How could he let that happen?

A few agonizing moments go by where he hears nothing but the rain and the pounding of his heart. Then there's the soft shush of wet sand, and Zelda's mouth at his ear. “I'm not,” she says. She steps to the side and slips her arms around his waist.

Gods above.

He tries to speak, to apologize again, but nothing comes out.

“I don't... well, I don't mind if you get a bit... _excited_.” She's dropped her voice to a whisper. “In fact I'd say, under the circumstances, I'd be rather disappointed if you didn't.”

Gods _above_.

She moves closer, insinuating herself beneath his arm—he puts it around her without thinking—just far enough to the side to avoid the bulge in his pants. Then she combs his wet hair aside and tilts her head and kisses him in right that same spot below his ear. Like an arrow straight to his groin. His knees buckle.

“Not helping,” he says without breath.

“Turnabout is fair play,” she says, and steps away from him. What does _that_ mean? “Come and find me when you're ready.” And then her footsteps recede across the sand.

 _Okay, Link_ , he tells himself. _Deep breaths. Sky. Ocean. Trees. Grass. Calm, calm, calm._

It works. Eventually. Until he realizes what she was implying by _turnabout_ , and has to start all over again.

What feels like a few hundred deep breaths later, the rain has stopped, and he rejoins her a little farther along the strand. She's collected a few seashells, and is holding a thin, translucent shell up to the lightening sky. Her legs are caked in wet sand up to her calves and her hair is a tangled wet mess. She's so beautiful it makes his chest ache.

“Shall we?” she says, gesturing back toward the village.

She threads their fingers together and they start back, walking the path of the rising tide, the waves rushing their ankles, washing back, rushing again. The sun's emerged from the clouds over the ocean to their right, hot and strong, already starting to dry their clothes. Seashells clink in Zelda's pocket.

Even just this.

Holding hands. Being with her. The things that people do. He's starting to feel like a person again. Until that morning outside the stable, he hadn't realized how he'd been drifting. Chasing ghost after ghost, never knowing he was a ghost himself.

But what about her? How long can she continue this way? How much time is too much?

It's so tempting to just give in to it, this illusion of happiness and peace. Which is why most of the time, he does. But if he could just gain a small foothold, remind her that there are things out there that she misses, that she doesn't have to hide from _everything_...

“So,” Link begins. He focuses on the gleam of the upended bucket in the distance, keeping his voice casual. “Maybe we should wait a day or so before we petition the mayor. You know, actually have a full day in the house, first.”

Zelda sighs. “I suppose you're right. If nothing else, we should take some time to consider the best approach.”

He soldiers on. “So I was thinking we could do something else tomorrow. There are—there are these ancient ruins, out in Palmorae. It's nice over there. The beach has this great view out over the ocean, and—the ruins are really interesting. There's a stone monument with a type of writing I've never seen anywhere else. There's a shrine there, too.” He puts a hand to the Sheikah slate at his belt, wondering if he should show her on the map, or if that would be pushing too hard. “Garini's out there a lot and he's made a study of it. We can invite him to come with us if you want.”

Zelda swings their hands, and looks out over the ocean, and doesn't answer.

Link takes his hand from the slate, trying not to think about how long it's been since she's looked at it. Maybe not. “Or we can take the horses up Tuft Mountain. There's a pond up there shaped like a heart.”

She turns back to him, eyes wide. “Let's do _that_ ,” she says.

He smiles at her, and holds her hand, and thinks that he never knew how good it could feel to run, or how terrible.

 

* * *

 

Zelda has taken to physical and manual tasks as she once took to books and research, and this afternoon is no different. She wields the clam knife as he might wield a dagger against a chuchu. “Easy,” he says, taking her hand and adjusting her grip. “Don't stab at it. Like I showed you, with your thumb—right. Now wedge the blade in at that little notch right there. Carefully.”

She shoots him a look at that last word, but follows his instructions. As everyone does on their first try shucking, she makes an absolute mess, chipping off pieces of shell, spilling juice everywhere, and mangling the meat inside almost to pulp.

“That was... a good first try,” he says.

“That was an _abysmal_ first try,” she says. “Hand me another.” She attacks the next clam, and the next, and the next, with as much vigor. “How do you get yours so _neat_?” she says after the fourth mangling.

Link demonstrates a couple more times, separating the clams from their shells with ease. The motions are from memories he doesn't have. “It just takes practice. We could borrow a second knife from someone so you could follow along with me.”

She snatches the knife back and tries again, her tongue held against her upper lip in concentration. He tries not to look, or to think too much about where he wants to put his own tongue. The kiss from earlier is still boiling in his memory and his blood. _Turnabout._ That's what she said. _I'm not sorry. I don't mind if you get excited. Turnabout is fair play_.

But even this is a thrill. Sitting with her, watching the determined gleam in her eye. Watching her live.

Living with her.

“Look!” she says, twisting away the upper half of a clam shell. “That one's not too bad, is it?”

He examines the half she holds out. “Perfect. Now do that thirty more times.” She sticks her tongue out at him and he can't grab her and kiss her right in the middle of the village, he _can't_ , and he needs to stop thinking about it _right now_.

Food is the best distraction there is, so while she continues to shuck, he prepares the stuffing. Stale bread—another first try of hers, with a similar result, but perfect for this—ground into crumbs. Minced garlic. Herbs, butter, salt, pepper flake. Some of the collected juice from the clams. He makes sure to keep all the mangled ones set aside as he stuffs them, as he doesn't mind the odd piece of shell. _Good for the bones_ , he hears in his father's voice, _just as long as you don't crack a tooth_.

He makes rice pilaf with mushrooms and green onions, and when the clams are baked to perfection, he slices lemons into wedges. “I still can't believe what you paid for these,” Zelda says as she picks up a wedge. “That trader could see the hunger in your eyes, I'm certain of it. He took shameless advantage of you.”

Link rolls the second lemon against the board, and gives her a sidelong glance. “Some things are just worth having, whatever the price.”

 

* * *

 

Link pays Armes in the morning. Three gold, one silver. “Good luck on your trip,” he says.

“Thanks.” Armes accepts the rupees, their gleam reflected in his eyes. He heaves a deep sigh. “Well, time to go settle up. If I knew how to do anything for a living other than fish, I'd be tempted to just keep it all and start over somewhere else.”

 _Won't help_ , Link doesn't say.

“Take good care of the place. Make sure you keep the roof patched like I showed you. And, uh...” He throws a glance over to Zelda, who's by the cookfire whisking milk into a bowl, and leans in closer. “Be careful with my bed, okay? You break it, you bought it.”

Link chokes on his own saliva. He coughs, hoping his face isn't going as red as he thinks. “We won't—” He swallows, his eyes watering. “It's not like that.”

“Yeah.” Armes pats him on the shoulder. “Okay. Just be careful with the bed.”

Link is still coughing while Armes wanders over to exchange farewells with Zelda. He's not sure what they say, but when he starts walking back, Zelda is in tow. “Tend to the fire, please,” she says to Link. “I'm going to accompany our friend here while he settles up with Cloyne.”

Armes seems to accept this lack of trust with good grace. It's the kind of thing Zelda can get away with, especially when she widens her eyes like that. “Make sure you start lots of trouble,” Link tells her. She makes a face at him as he waves them off.

Link assesses Zelda's crepe batter, lifting the whisk from the bowl and watching it drip. Too thick. He adds more milk, mixes and checks again. Once the fire's burned down enough, he levels the coals, gets the rack over it and the pan heating. By the time Zelda's footsteps approach he's swirling the first of the batter into the pan.

She stops beside him, stamping her foot. He looks up. Her face is bright red. “Why didn't you _tell_ him we're getting that second bed from Numar today?”

“I thought he knew, and then—wait.” His eyes narrow. “What did he say to you?” If it was anything inappropriate...

She crosses her arms. “He said it was very _gallant_ of you to offer to sleep on the floor. I'll bet he thought—well, never mind. Anyway, I—” Her attention goes to the pan as Link reaches in and flips the crepe with his fingers. “Hey, you started without me!”

“First one's never great, anyway. You can do the rest.”

“Hmm.” She kneels on the ground next to him and peers into the pan. “Perhaps I shouldn't. It's the last of our flour.” Traveling merchants had to bring it from the west, and none had brought any this time around. Of course he could just use the slate to travel to Tabantha, but that would be cheating.

“You're doing it.” He snatches the crepe from the pan and deposits in on a plate, then demonstrates the technique of swirling the pan while ladling the batter, to spread it into a thin, uniform crepe. “See when the edges start to curl up like that? That's when you flip.”

“With your fingers?”

 _Fireproof fingers and a cast-iron stomach_ , he hears in his father's voice. “That's how I do it, but you can use a spatula.”

Zelda does the next one. Link's heart races as he moves in close and puts an arm around her, guiding her hand in swirling the pan, the fingers of his other hand resting lightly on her hip. She turns her face toward him, pressing her nose to his cheek, grinning. “I like this lesson. It's very bold.”

He should touch her more often. He should. He always means to.

“I wonder, might I expect such boldness in future lessons?”

He should kiss her right here. No reason not to. No one else is around right now. “They cook fast. Don't let it burn.”

She botches the flip, rendering the crepe a wrinkled mess. “Oh, _bother_ ,” she says with a pout.

“Don't worry about it. Just spread it back out again and let it cook. I'll eat that one.”

“Wait, where are you going?”

He's stepped away and is heading toward the entrance to the hut. “I'll be right back. Keep crepe-ing.”

“That's not a word,” she calls after him.

When he comes back, she's got one more on the plate and is starting on the next. “Hey, that's perfect!” he says, and she glows at the praise.

She beckons him over and leans in, whispering in his ear as if making a confession. “I used my fingers.” Then she kisses his cheek.

She's going to be the death of him.

The next crepe is rescued just in time, pinched between her deft little fingers and flipped over, and watching this isn't helping to cool him down. “So, where did you go just now?” she asks.

“It's a surprise.”

Out of twelve crepes, four are perfect, three are very nice, and the rest are varying snarls of cooked batter. He sets the four perfect ones aside and gestures to the low bench in front of the hut. “If you wouldn't mind?”

Zelda gives him a curious look over her shoulder as she walks over to the bench, moving to sit so she's facing away from him. Link removes a jar from the pocket of his shorts and hefts it, studying the deep red color. He's not sure about this. Is it pushing too hard? It's just a small reminder. It'll be a lot more dramatic when he makes those cookies for her, but he has to get hold of the ingredients, first.

He makes a simple sauce from some of the jam, heating it over the outermost coals in a small saucepan, adding a spoon of water and stirring until it's smooth. Then he spreads a little jam on the four perfect crepes, folds them into triangles, and fans them on her plate, drizzling them with the sauce. She'll scold him for serving her too much again, but at least she'll have as much as she wants. He sauces his own crepes but leaves them unfilled. Then he carries the plates over to where Zelda sits, a swarm of butterflies in his stomach.

To his unending relief, she squeals in delight when he hands her the plate. “Is this—but, how—”

He sits next to her, sets his plate in his lap, and produces the half-empty jar. Zelda takes it and cradles it in her hands, reading the label: _Laissa's Wildberry Jam. Made with pride in Rito Village._

“From the trader?”

Link shrugs and stuffs half a crepe in his mouth.

“This must have cost a _fortune_ ,” she whispers.

He shrugs again, still chewing.

“I know what you're doing,” Zelda continues. “You're as transparent as this glass jar.” She reaches over and brushes his hair from his face. Those little touches that he lives for. “Thank you. You don't have to... do this sort of thing. But, thank you.”

 _You're doing it, too_ , he almost says. _Right now_. His throat is tight as he swallows his mouthful of food, and the words along with it.

They don't say anything further, but Zelda demolishes her entire plate. Link can't remember the last time a meal was so satisfying.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This will _probably_ be three parts? Maybe four. I've written about 20,000 words for this thing but then I scrapped the first 10,000 so who knows??


End file.
